


Liminal

by Dream_In_Color



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Minor Sexual Content, POV Ronan Lynch, POV Second Person, The Dream Pack (mentioned), The Gangsey (mentioned), other ships implied but not specified, rovinsky, technically an unspecified AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 03:03:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13449177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dream_In_Color/pseuds/Dream_In_Color
Summary: And you need it, this, him, as much as you hate to admit it, because you can’t get this anywhere else. And you’ve been told you’re a snake but you think maybe one set of fangs is as good as any other in his pack of misfits.





	Liminal

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I've tasted hell and it tastes just like you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10160996) by [crookedspoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon). 



> This is my first TRC work and also the first work I've ever written in Second Person.  
> This also started as something that was supposed to just be an original work and I got 1000 words in and realized it was 100% unintentionally a Rovinsky fic so... here it is.  
> This is basically some unspecified AU where Pynch isn't a thing (as much as I love it) although I didn't really stop to examine why or what the other ships vaguely referenced in here are.  
> I kinda went out of my way to not use names so I hope it's not confusing.
> 
> I'm also terrible at tagging so if you think there's anything that needs to be added just let me know! Constructive feedback is always welcome.

The street lights glitter against the wet pavement, halo through the mist still hanging in the air. It’s just the two of you and you’re not _really_ sure if either of you is drunk enough for this but you keep walking in the direction of his apartment anyway. It’s a bad idea, you think, but you don’t turn around, don’t go back to the bar with your friends who are so engrossed in each other you’re not even sure they noticed you leave. You don’t turn around because that would be admitting that you’re thinking about it at all and still chose to leave with him in the first place and it’s easier to stomach if you tell yourself you’re too drunk to know what you’re doing at all.

Too drunk to acknowledge that you’re so jealous of your friends sometimes that you want to put your fist through a window, end up punching your own reflection in the bathroom mirror because something is wrong with you, why can’t you just be happy for them like a normal person? You know if you go back to the table with blood on your hand they either won’t notice which will only make this hole in your chest worse or you’ll get a lecture, which you _definitely_ can’t handle right now. And then he’s there, pushing into the bar’s tiny bathroom and leaning against the wall, catching your eyes in the fractured mirror. He’s grinning at you because he’s a fucking dick and he thinks this is hilarious, and that pisses you off even more because the only reason he’d be this amused is if he’d worked at least some of it out, your jealousy.

You spin on the spot and shove into his space, snarling, looking for a fight, something to break the skin of your other hand on, and thinking his face will do just as well as any piece of glass or concrete you could go find at this time of night. You’re so close then, breathing the same air and he doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, just switches to smirking at you, pupils blown wide from something you don’t want to think about because he’s definitely _on_ something, always is, high as a fuckin’ kite, but there’s a different edge to it tonight than what you’re used to and he’s easy to hate, usually, but you can’t think about or you’ll hate _yourself_ too. And you already do that enough every other night.

He raises an eyebrow at you, a challenge, and then you hit him, and there a little bit of blood on his teeth when he grins at you again. Something inside of you goes haywire, seeing him bleeding from wounds you gave him, standing close enough to touch, to hit again, or to lean in and kiss and you don’t want to think about it, not really, because you hate him and he makes it so easy, tries so hard to be the guy no one likes but everyone needs.

You hit him again, and he laughs, pushing off the wall and into your space even more. And then his lips are on yours and you can taste his blood and you ball one fist into his shirt but you don’t push him away, you kiss back and it’s not gentle because nothing is when it comes to the two of you but it’s exactly what you need. You need something to cut yourself on and if he’s willing to be the knife, you’re willing to let him, just this once, because you’re just drunk enough that you think maybe you can convince yourself the two of you haven’t been dancing around this for years and that maybe it was just a drunken mistake, something to experience and then to never be repeated. He pulls away first, both of you struggling for air for a second, eyes locked on each other and then his smirk slides back in place and he’s letting go of you and sauntering out the door.

You follow, bypassing the table where your friends are wrapped around each other, laughing and loving and _living_. You’re bee-lining for the front, dodging in and out of other drunk patrons, trying to keep sight of him and when you push your way out the door, he’s standing there, leaning against the lamppost. He turns, not a word, and you’re not sure when he’s ever been this quiet and you think maybe you should be concerned but you also think that maybe that’s too close to seeming like concern _for_ him rather than _about_ him even for you to be able to fool yourself, so you try not to think about it. You know where he lives because this isn’t the first time you’ve been there, and it’s not far and you haven’t told the others that the bar you introduced them to, that quickly became the go-to spot and favorite hang-out is less than three blocks from his place. You don’t tell them because they’d ask why you know, ask why you brought them there and you don’t want them thinking you’ve been looking for him, every time you’ve been there, with or without them, because the answer is yes, and you don’t lie but you can’t bring yourself to tell them the truth this time.

He finally tilts his head slightly, catching you out of the corner of his eye, hands shoved in your pockets and very obviously staring at the back of his head, shoulders, trying (and only mostly succeeding) in not letting your eyes drift down to his ass.

“You good, Princess?” he’s smirking again and part of you wants to hit it off his face, beat the cockiness out of him, if that’s even possible, find out if it is. Another part of you wants to kiss him again, bite his lips, shove your tongue down his throat so he can’t smirk at you like that, and that part of you knows that that is definitely _not_ an achievable feat, for anyone and especially not you. He enjoys it too much, the way he gets to you, the fact that he’s one of the few, if not only one, who can.

You don’t answer, you shoulder past him and keep walking. That just makes him laugh because you’re heading to his place and the fact that you know how to get there well enough that you’re leading the way, drunk, is another of those things you expressly don’t think about. He falls into step next to you, and you realize he’s put his shades on again, and you frown, trying to remember if he’d had them on when you’d caught his eye across the bar when you’d first walked in with your friends. You can’t remember, but you don’t think he’s had them on at all tonight and why would he bother with them now, when it’s pitch black outside, save for the street lamps and porch lights.

You force yourself to stop caring. It’s not like it matters, you never let him fuck you face to face anyway. If he wants to wear those stupid sunglasses, he can go right ahead. Either way, you’ll be spending the entire time alternating between being blissfully _unthinking_ and trying not to think about the fact that it’s him while also trying to not think about either of the people you wish it was instead. You usually fail for at least a few minutes at a time until you circle back around to _blank_.

He pushes the door open and you follow him up the stairs to his room. You can hear his boys fucking as you pass their doors and it’s not surprising, seems like every time you’ve been here at _least_ two of the four were _busy_ with each other. Seems like all of them are tonight. It still makes your stomach clench though, the thought that they’d know, that they can hear you just like you can hear them, even if you weren’t _positive_ he tells them, probably in way more specific detail than you’re willing to even consider, every time. Flaunts it like a badge of honor, that he’s had you in his bed, that it’s been more than the once you told yourself it’d be from the beginning, that it’s never the last time like you told yourself the next three times it happened until you stopped thinking about it at all because you couldn’t lie, not even to yourself. 

Sometimes, late at night, in your own room, you think about what you could be like, the two of you, if you weren’t still so tied to your friends. If you abandoned all of that, let him pull you into his world, let him shove tiny pills into your mouth and shotgun his smoke. The pack would be pissed, at first, you think, smirking to yourself, but then, you think, they’d do what they always do and relent, after a while. He always gets what he wants, in the end. And that should piss you off, should make you feel like fighting him, and it does, when he’s smirking at you like he knows it just like you do. But when you’re thinking about it, on your own, you think maybe here, with him, with them, is where you really belong. They fuck and they fight and they race. They’re fire and fury and gasoline and everything too big to be contained in a normal, functioning human body. The five of them, a pack with their alpha. He already accuses you of being on a leash, and you think maybe you’d be good at being one of his wolves, once that leash was gone, in a way you haven’t been good at anything since your father’s death.

But you’re in his room now, and he’s staring at you, expectant. He’s lost the shades again. And you need it, this, him, as much as you hate to admit it, because you can’t get this anywhere else. And you’ve been told you’re a snake but you think maybe one set of fangs is as good as any other in his pack of misfits.

You start stripping, quick and efficient, and he smirks again, starts peeling his own clothes off until you’re both naked and then it’s easier, in some ways, because you’ve done this before. Hands and knees while he preps you then you’re face first in the mattress with a hand between your shoulder blades, holding you down while he slides in. He’s still then, for a beat too long, and you shift, trying and failing like every other time to bite down the sounds you make. He shoves you until you freeze again, spreads what you’re sure is coke into a line on your back, inhaling it and licking off the residue and then tracing the lines of your tattoo, stopping here and there to nip playfully. You close your eyes for a split second, more like a drawn out blink, really, because this isn’t the first time this has happened either and usually that means he plans on dragging it out and that you’re in for a hell of a night and you always have mixed feelings about it but you don’t feel quite the same this time as you usually do and you’re trying your absolute hardest to not examine that too closely while you’re still here, in his bed, with his dick inside you and his friends fucking down the hall. That’s a box you only open when you know there’s someone around to stop you, to keep you from making what would, you’re _pretty_ _sure_ , end up being the dumbest-decision-slash-biggest-mistake of your life. You don’t think about it now, with his teeth on your neck and hands on your hips and that stupid smirk you can _hear_ when he whispers filth into your ear. When you’re this deep already, it’s easy to tell yourself you’ve made plenty of dumb decisions, what’s one more to the list? And then he says something, mentions your friends, back at the bar, laughing and happy, and you close your eyes because you can’t think about that while you’re here but you also can’t look at him, even in your peripherals, when he practically caught you, when you were so close to telling yourself to just jump off the cliff, let him be the rocks at the bottom you die on because at least while you’re in the air, you’re free.

 

Afterwards, you fight the sleep closing in on you. He’s a solid line of warmth pressed against your side and he’s not asleep either but he’s close. You force yourself up, back into your clothes, and he smirks at you, even with the way he can barely keep his eyes open, it feels loaded.

“See you on the streets.” You hear as you shut his bedroom door. You close your eyes for a second, then will your feet to move. You’re down the stairs and out into the fresh air, the time not quite late night anymore, but not quite early morning yet. You walk the three blocks back to the bar, which is closed now, your friends nowhere in sight and you pause there, pulling out the cell phone you rarely use and seeing several missed calls and texts from them, growing more worried the longer you didn’t answer. You listen to the last message, send a quick text.

_Not dead._

And think about calling to be picked up for exactly 0.5 seconds before you start walking home.


End file.
